


When I’m Like This, You’re The One I Trust

by VJR22_6



Category: Darkwing Duck (Cartoon 1991)
Genre: Adoption, Fluff, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, not quite sure how to tag it but drake has a panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28157922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VJR22_6/pseuds/VJR22_6
Summary: In the immediate aftermath of the St Canard Tower exploding, Drake finds himself in a position he’s never been before. Injuries he can handle, but being cared for? Feeling loved? Having Launchpad in his life is a string of firsts, and as he makes the decision to adopt Gosalyn, Drake finds himself falling in love, too.
Relationships: Drake Mallard & Gosalyn Mallard, Drake Mallard/Launchpad McQuack, Gosalyn Mallard & Launchpad McQuack
Comments: 16
Kudos: 90





	1. I’ve Been On My Own For Long Enough

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic in *March* and while it’s been a wild ride getting it done, I’m so happy to finally be able to share with you this fic!
> 
> At first the idea was pretty simple, and it was just “if Drake gets sent to the hospital do you think LP would pretend they were together if anyone asked?” But then I started to think, well, what if that led to Drake falling in love with LP while he’s recovering and starting the adoption process? And now it’s 12k words. Anyway.
> 
> The titles for both chapters & the fic itself are from the song Blinding Lights by The Weeknd.
> 
> As always, if you enjoy this fic, please drop me a comment!!!

Darkwing’s head feels like a single ice cube in a cup of soda, rocking and swaying in a bubbling fray. His surroundings are dusty, suffocating air, cold concrete, the bitter taste of blood in his mouth. He’s alone, and for a moment he’s fine to just lie his bruised back against the floor.

Not his first time waking up wounded after a fight he only half-remembers.

Of this fight, he doesn’t recall much right away. His opponent was much bigger than him, there was a computer with musical rainbow buttons… and there was red hair. Oh, there was red hair. Soft and short bangs of a child, followed by the thick and fluffy hair of a pilot. Two people who, for the first time in many years, made DW feel good. Warm. Loved.

And he needs to find them.

He struggles to roll onto his side. His chest is absolutely burning and one of his arms feels like needles inside a bowl of jello. But he grits his teeth and does it anyway, for them, because they made him into more than a silent hero. He needs them. He needs to feel good about himself again without being the only one in the world who thinks so.

He clutches his arm loosely as he stands and leans against a crumbling wall. If he’s lucky, Bulba isn’t gonna make it out of this wreckage alive and won’t continue pursuing that… little girl Gosalyn… if he’s lucky… she’s safe someplace….

He stumbles forward, toward a half-crushed doorway. He has to get out of here. He… takes two more steps. Leans off the wall because it’s supporting his weight alright, but it’s hurting his arm. Man, he’s messed up here. He takes… one more step….

He slips unconscious, and comes to several feet ahead. Ugh, he feels like… if soup had emotions.... And if those emotions were crushing anxiety. He’s gotta… go find Gosalyn… and Launchpad….

“911? Yeah, I need an ambulance…. bleeding and bruised all over. I don’t think he’s unconscious but…. Deedubya, stay with me. Listen to me, you can’t let go.”

He’s suddenly on the floor, staring up at some crooked rubble. Just beside him, here’s his pilot… how did he…?

“...don’t want to try and move him like this…. fading I think. Hurry, please.”

He sounds worried. He shouldn’t… shouldn’t be worried about Darkwing. Nobody worries about… Darkwing Duck. Not… not like that.

“Stay with me. You’re okay.”

“G’s’lyn….”

“She’s okay, she’s safe…. got her back to the orphanage and…. Not about her though. You’re hurt, bad….”

His voice is gentle. Warm. Like a comfy pillow and blanket for DW’s distressed mind and body. Through the pain he can’t quite figure out why this guy cares so much, but… he likes it. Likes having someone looking out for him. He… didn’t know he could miss something he never had.

Darkwing fumbles around, reaching upward. He wants to touch Launchpad’s face. He’s sure that he’s gonna move to touch his new sidekick and find that he fades through DW’s fingers. A specter, or a dream perhaps.

He doesn't, though.

Launchpad’s cheek feathers are soft, and his face warm with a rising blush as Darkwing sets his hand against the pilot’s cheek. His vision is blurry, but he watches Launchpad pull his hand away. He feels his heart drop a little, sure he’s being rejected or the pilot’s getting up to leave him. Isn’t that always how it goes?

Instead, Launchpad takes his big, big hand and laces his fingers with Darkwing’s smaller ones, pressing their palms against one another. The warmth that blossoms in his chest from the contact makes DW feel quite a bit like a dying star. Explosively warm and entirely dangerous.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs, with a small smile. “Ambulance will be here in a few minutes.”

“No… hospital.” Darkwing focuses on the pilot’s face, head spinning faster with sudden anxiety.

“You have to,” Launchpad replies, and reaches out with his free hand. He brushes DW’s cheek so, so gently with it, every inch of Darkwing’s skin lighting up with goosebumps. He feels like he’s been missing this feeling forever, but he’s hardly ever had others’ touch to know he needs it.

“You’re hurt real bad, buddy.”

“I can… handle it.” His beak quivers as Launchpad gently wipes dust from his cheek feathers. They both know he can’t, at least this time. Maybe times before, he would get back up and get dangerous again. But tonight, he took a huge leap of faith. He was so desperate to do right by Gosalyn that he walked his dumb tail right into danger.

“I won’t let them hurt you,” he murmurs, resting his fingers against the very edge of Darkwing’s mask. A silent question of permission even as he continues to speak out loud. “Trust me, please, I’ll keep you safe.”

“...Okay,” Darkwing agrees, and he lets Launchpad pull his mask away. With it, the pilot breaks down the last of the walls DW built around himself, whether the pilot knows it or not.

For a moment, everything is breathless. Maybe it's just the thick dust filling the crumbled building, but their eyes meet and he can’t speak. He’s lying on cool concrete, and there’s wreckage around them, and it’s quite suffocating to be here unable to haul himself home. He blames that for the thickness in his throat as his face is cooled by the night air, instead of even considering that it might just be looking into the eyes of a beautiful almost-stranger without the mask to stand between them. He ignores the fact he might just be okay with this, and focuses on keeping conscious instead.

“My name’s Launchpad,” his companion says, and he’s smiling really genuinely, if a bit nervously. “It’s nice, um, to meet you. Again.”

 _It’s nice to meet you all over again too,_ DW thinks. _It’s very nice to meet you indeed._

It’s nice even though this is the first time in many years he’s felt safe without the mask, and he’s entirely defenseless. He… he trusts Launchpad, he’s grateful that the kind of person here with him is the kind of person who whisked that little girl off to the orphanage to keep her safe. Not to mention coming back to keep DW safe too. He’s still held back by his injuries, though, not to mention years without practice at this, so all he manages to say is, “Drake. Drake… Mallard.”

The ambulance arrives then, in a swirling blur of red and blue light, and he hardly tries to keep up with the informational exchange between the paramedics and his newfound partner. Something about a sure concussion and bruises and… going to need surgery, probably, and… he can’t… quite keep his eyes open… without Launchpad keeping… him awake….

Drake next wakes in a bright white room. He’s freezing cold and hurting in every way he can imagine, but luckily he remembers the details of the brutal events that brought him here. Memory loss would be messy, at best. Especially given he let his mask off with—

Launchpad.

He looks around the empty room swiftly, a decision he immediately regrets when his whole body lights up in aches and pains. Oh, he definitely broke something. If Launchpad sold him out, he’s going back to jail for _sure_ , and he’s going to be all over the news. He wonders vaguely what kind of payout his identity was worth. It couldn’t have been much.

The worst part is thinking of Gosalyn, of her bright eyes and wide smile, and knowing he can’t be her hero. That poor little girl is going to be stuck in an orphanage forever, and her bright spirit is just going to fade. It’ll be smothered in an environment like that, and she won’t be the same person in the end, and he’s never going to see her again ever and it’s going to break her heart. She’s going to be alone forever and it’s all his fault.

His chest begins to turn aflame, both with the ragged-ness of his panicked breathing and the obvious injuries he’s suffered. His life can fall apart for all he cares, he never had much of one to begin with. But Gosalyn? She at least deserves a fighting chance at avoiding the same fate. He had hoped, so much, to be able to do something, anything at all, to help her, and now he’s gone and ruined things for both of them by stupidly trusting someone he just met.

He only knew Launchpad for a day, he shouldn’t have let himself get so attached, and it wouldn’t be hurting so much to fall apart. There’s a yawning, cold hole in his chest, like he’s been shot by a bullet of betrayal. It never hurt to be alone before, so why is now any--

The door swings open, and in steps Launchpad, clutching an armful of vending machine snacks.

He’s quick to take in Drake’s alertness, and he tosses his obviously newly-acquired food onto the bedside chair without much thought. He perches himself on the edge of the bed, his face just a bit flushed.

“Hey, you’re up, that’s great,” Launchpad comments quietly. His warm voice is unusually gentle on Drake’s head, and the wounded vigilante focuses on the sound of it to draw himself out of his panic. “I figured you’d be out a while longer so I went to grab something to eat. Heh. Guess I should’ve waited in here a little bit more, huh?”

“How—how long was I out?” His head feels murky. He… wasn’t forgotten, after all. Wasn’t abandoned.

“About a week. They had to do surgery and put the casts on and everything, and they put you on some pretty strong meds.” Launchpad gestures to Drake’s feet, and he realizes they’re both trapped in bulky white casts. As is his arm, he realizes. This may well be the worst he’s been hurt in years, not to mention how he feels.

“That was one heck of an explosion.”

“They said you’d probably be out of commission for a couple of weeks, for sure. It was pretty bad. Um, the nurses said you’d need someone to help you around, once you’re out of here, and they said, uh… well, when I brought you in, they asked if I was _with_ you, and… I kinda panicked? I thought they’d make me stay behind if I said no and I promised I’d stay, right? So I said yes.”

“Launchpad?” Drake asks, but the pilot is so caught up in stumbling through his explanation.

“I didn’t lie, not really, they just asked and I said yes because what else was I supposed to say? But, um—if you do want my help, I’d love to! Help you, that is. If you want me to go I’ll go. Have I said too much? I don’t want, um, you to be uncomfortable or whatever. I just—”

“Launchpad,” Drake repeats, more firmly, and his attention finally shifts. Drake chooses his next words carefully, navigating these new waters nervously. “Sidekicks help their heroes, right? And you are my sidekick.”

“Oh, I—yeah! Yeah, right!”

“That settles it, then. I’m gonna need someone to watch my back until I can take to the streets again, and who better than you?”

“Aw, gee, Deedubya, this’ll be great. I promise I’ll take good care of you ‘till you can take care of yourself again!”

“You’ve got a lot of faith in me, pal.” He tries to laugh, but a single short huff is all he can manage. 

“Well, yeah,” Launchpad admits, and Drake tilts his head to focus on the pilot better. He’s rubbing the back of his neck nervously, and his eyes are facing away as if he fears meeting Drake’s with them. “You’re St. Canard’s hero. My hero.”

_...Oh._

Drake can’t deny how absolutely insane that is to hear, even after Launchpad’s already confessed to being Darkwing’s biggest—and, admittedly, only—fan. Sure, he’s got a lot of confidence and pride in himself. He’s had to, what with how little people usually think of him! Actually hearing someone else having any sense of belief in him, though? Having someone by his side who actually thinks he’s strong and brave, and that he’s a hero? Much less being someone’s _personal_ hero?

That does something to Drake’s lonely old heart he’s not felt in a very long while. Maybe ever.

Drake doesn’t know how to say what he really means. He doesn’t recall ever having been taught how to be personal or emotional like that. He’d sure love to, if it meant he could convince Launchpad to keep doing... whatever this is called, this cheeks-turned-warm and head-feeling-light sort of thing. But he seems to have done alright with the promise of a sidekick-superhero relationship. Launchpad seems just fine with that much.

Even if it’s already obviously going to be way more than that.

They leave it like that, for a few days. The doctors are amazed at how quickly Drake seems to be rebounding from his broken and bruised state, so they let him out of the hospital after just a few weeks. They insist he keep off his feet, though, so he’s sent on his way with a wheelchair.

The bridge tower isn’t exactly accessible, though, so Launchpad has to carry him upstairs when they arrive. As much as Drake wants to walk on his own, he honestly doesn’t much mind being lifted like a fairytale princess. Not that he’s about to admit that, though.

Launchpad hardly leaves his side after that. The pilot picks up fresh groceries and swings back to his own place to grab clothes and toiletries, sure, but he largely stays right beside Drake’s bed, or he pulls up a chair so they can sit at the kitchen table together. Drake’s in near-constant pain at first, so he really appreciates the company and having someone to help him move about or make something to eat. He doesn’t know how to say so, but he’s beyond grateful to have a partner right now.

Even outside of caring for Drake, beyond watching over the city and working on the Thunderquack and Ratcatcher, Launchpad is good to Drake. He’s funny, and always has some long, weird story to tell. He lived with a rich guy from Duckberg before he lived in that hanger, and he went on dozens of adventures that he loves to tell the tales of.

“—I ended up crashing that plane, but my folks and Mr. McDee were really nice about it,” he’s saying, voice muffled from behind a panel on the Ratcatcher. Among other things, they’ve been getting to know each other while Launchpad works on their vehicles. “And the triplets got a moment to shine when everybody found out they’d stopped the Beagle Boys!” 

“Sounds like you’re pretty good with kids, Launchpad,” Drake says with a smile, leaning against the seat on the Ratcatcher.

Launchpad just has something about him that’s led Drake to catching himself casually grinning over and over the past couple of days. It’s the first time in years that Drake’s really had a reason to feel much more than loneliness and faked smiles when he’s on patrol. He’s already decided he’ll do anything to keep feeling like he does.

“Heh, I guess so. I mean, I did help raise my kid sister, and I help with the triplets and Webby when they need me.”

As they often do lately, Drake’s thoughts circle back to Gosalyn. He thinks about singing her to sleep that night, and feeling for all the world like that’s what he belonged doing. It’s just now, after Launchpad’s settled in at his side as a confidant, he’s been picturing the pilot there too.

Launchpad would be good to Gos. Maybe better than—no, scratch that, _definitely_ better than Drake would be. He clearly knows what he’s doing, and would probably be willing to help. But why’s Drake even thinking about this anyway?

He’s got no experience with kids, and would almost surely screw up. He can hardly keep himself in good enough shape to do his one job. Plus, he can’t even cook properly. He always forgets the milk!

And yet… he thinks about that poor girl, with only a backpack and some hockey gear to her name. He could at least try to find someplace better for her, if not with him, but what—

“Something on your mind, Deedubya?”

“Well….” Drake hesitates. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to ask about this, with how little of a plan he has. Then again, maybe Launchpad might have an idea that could help her too? He briefly pictures that feisty kid ending up like him. Nocturnal, lonely, downright miserable, all because she never had a foundation from which to grow.... He can’t let life do that to her.

“Launchpad, do you remember Gosalyn, from the night with Bulba?”

“Sure do! Sweet kid. She wanted to come lookin’ for ya and kept trying to make me let her, til I dropped her off at the orphanage.”

The thought of that little girl fighting for him, trying to be a hero of her own making, is a quick seal on the deal. Gosalyn is a kindred spirit, and he needs to be sure history doesn’t repeat itself. He sits up as straight as his bandaged body will allow.

“I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately, and I want to help her.”

“Well, sure,” Launchpad smacks the panel he’d been working under closed. “I bet she’d love for you to adopt her. SHUSH would probably help with the paperwork, too.”

“Adopt her?” Drake shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s a good solution. I mean, I’m nowhere near fit to be a parent.”

“Why not? If you put in some time and research, and some hard work, you could do it.”

“Launchpad, that’s not—”

“Not possible? Drake, come on,” he smiles gently, sparking that unfamiliar(but not unwelcome) warmth in Drake’s chest again. “You’re the hero of St. Canard! You beat criminals every day, and you survived a huge explosion just a few weeks ago! What’s stopping you from being Gosalyn’s hero too?”

I—well—er, I….” He sighs. If Launchpad’s taught him anything in the short time they’ve been around one another, it’s that Drake is more than who he sees in the mirror. Launchpad’s always seen more, it’s time he proved all that faith in him to be worthwhile.

“You're right. I always feel like I’m not enough, I guess.”

“You were enough the first time she needed a hero,” Launchpad reminds him, another thing he can’t deny. “All you need to do is go out and get an apartment, really.”

“No, an apartment wouldn’t be big enough for three people,” Drake muses. Launchpad tilts his head, ever clueless, and his cute expression ignites a blush on Drake’s cheeks that he turns away to hide. “I’ll have to buy a house. But you are right, SHUSH could help. I’m sure if I take up some office work for them they’d be willing to help.”

“Drake, you got blown up,” Launchpad says softly, tenderly. Gentle as always. “Broken ribs, both your legs are out, and your arm.”

“I’m gonna be fine.”

“Yesterday you tried to get up and make lunch, and you ended up smacking your head really hard,” Launchpad ignores him, softly tapping his head where it’s been wrapped in bandages. His heart skips a beat at the brief contact, but he forces the feelings away as Launchpad keeps talking.

“You’re not really in a position to be doing something like that.”

“Not alone, sure,” Drake hints again. This time, he sees his words click, and Launchpad gives him a look full of an indescribable emotion. A cocktail of confusion and fear or excitement, he can’t tell which, and something unrecognizable. He doesn’t dare hope it’s a mirror of his own feelings, whatever this is called, and yet….

“Why me? You could probably have anyone in the world help you, and stay with you if you wanted them to.”

 _Oh, Launchpad._ If only Drake had any sort of path to follow here, a blueprint for making this whole thing work out. An instruction manual, maybe, titled something like, “How to Show Someone You Care When Nobody’s Ever Cared About You Before.”

“I… well…. I think it should be my sidekick, that’s all.”

“Well… if you’re sure about it, I’d love to help!”

“Course I am, LP,” Drake replies, inwardly cursing himself for his inability to express his thoughts. His sidekick-but-more lights up at the new nickname, though, so Drake takes what he can and wills himself to try harder. He can’t lose this.

It takes an insane amount of work to kickstart the process. Drake spends hours on the phone, his aching legs propped up and his lap full of paperwork. Launchpad keeps busy too, in any way Drake can’t. Whereas Drake will work on filling out forms late into the night, patrol temporarily forgotten with his condition, his pilot pal will make sure the laundry gets done or bring Drake a plate of delicious homemade food to keep him going.

It’s always received with a smile, and few words—Drake has never been good at thank-yous—and Launchpad often takes to sitting beside Drake, wherever he’s settled down. They take turns reading off the questions on the paperwork and eating, and it’s not long before the forms are a mix of LP’s messy chicken scratch and Drake’s practiced cursive. It goes unsaid, but Launchpad assumes a role in the life they’re building for Gosalyn long before she even knows they’re going to give her a home.

SHUSH, as Launchpad had suggested, does help, expediting the process from months of verifying and background checking to just a few weeks of it. Even with the help, though, they still have to deal with a fair number of interviews and assessments, and each one leaves Drake feeling a little too vulnerable for comfort.

House hunting is another problem, too. Drake is tired after just two days of researching good schools and local kids programs, and he still can’t walk very much, bandaged literally head to toe. He’s helpless to do much more than give Launchpad directions driving from one possible home to the next. More than once he finds himself drifting off in the front seat of the car, dozing on painkillers and the lull of being cared for. He suspects the head injury is to blame, too.

Launchpad never seems to mind, though, just turns the radio down and lets Drake rest.

He pretends Launchpad never did a thing, and ignores it when he feels his cheeks get hot or he gets a lump in his throat at the thought of being tended to. Darkwing has hardly ever mattered before, and Drake Mallard never once. The fact he does now makes his heart race and head spin whenever he takes time to think about it. It’s not unlike he’s on a carnival ride, a scream of mixed terror and joy always on the cusp of slipping out. He never lets it.

It’s nearly a month of hunting until they find Avian Way, and even as Drake hobbles through the place(now crutches, one baby step forward in recovery), he knows this empty house is going to be a home. There are three bedrooms, one overlooking the biggest backyard they’ve encountered on their house tours. The front room is the perfect place to set up a family room, too.

When they end up in the kitchen, the back window letting sunlight in that warms Drake’s feathers, he notices Launchpad looking around with an unnamable expression. His beak is just a bit open, and his eyes sparkle in the way they do when he’s talking about the McDucks.

“What’re you thinking about?”

“Huh? Oh, just….” He’s looking around the place, but when Drake speaks, it catches his attention and he looks over. The sparkle fades a bit as he gets more somber. “I always wanted to live in a big house with people I care about. It feels strange now that I’m actually gonna have it.”

Drake bites his cheek, suddenly struck with a feeling that’s oddly wonderful but entirely unexpected. What—when did—Launchpad _cares_ about him, that’s so… he feels so much all at once he can’t handle any of it at all.

“Well, uh, I’m—it’ll be nice to live with you too, LP.”

Launchpad just smiles warmly at him, and Drake returns that much, but inside, his heart is doing somersaults. Acrobatics. There’s fireworks and fanfare as his head and heart both celebrate the newborn tenderness between himself and Launchpad. _He wants to be here. He cares. He really does._

Drake walks around one more time, giving the emotional energy time to disperse. He takes in each room, imagining how they’ll bring life to it all. And then, finally, it’s time to go, and they walk out, their house-hunting completed.

As they cross the front lawn, a perky blonde in the yard next door waves and yells hello, in what may possibly be the most annoying voice Drake has ever heard. He nods politely, just this once grateful for his injuries giving him an easy excuse not to stroll over and say hi. As they turn on the car and get ready to go, he leans in next to Launchpad and whispers, “I think I’m going to hate her.”

Launchpad just laughs a little. Hel could never hate anybody. Drake thinks it’s—well, he wouldn’t say sweet or cute, just… Launchpad is his opposite in many ways, and it’s good to have someone around to give a little balance to how he sees the world. Someone to remind him that, for all his pessimism, there is still good in people.

There’s a lot of good in people, actually. Drake tries to ignore it, but he can’t adopt Gosalyn alone. Not after being a missing person and probably legally dead for over a decade. He needs support to fall back into society, to at least look like he knows what a responsible adult acts like. He’s fortunate in finding only kind faces all along his journey.

J Gander gives Drake a day job—or, rather, a night job—with SHUSH, so that the adoption agency can look at the paperwork and see that he does indeed have the income to raise a kid. Gander just probably could have picked something better than a “night accountant.” Who has an accountant working only at night?

Launchpad calls up Scrooge McDuck, too. Even though they’ve never met, he offers to be a witness of Drake’s character when he—very quickly—realizes how much this means to LP. Technically, it shouldn’t be allowed, but Scrooge _is_ the richest duck in the world, and he can get away with much more than he should. With a name like his on their papers, Drake and LP find themselves sailing through the rest of their troubles.

Drake has to meet with a social worker himself, too. She isn’t shying away from anything, a fierce sort of protectiveness in the way she asks questions. He can tell she’s got Gos’s best interests at heart. And though it‘s uncomfortable to reveal so much of himself to a stranger after years of lonely solitude, he tells her everything she asks for. Where he lives, what he likes to do for fun, how he got his injuries.

To that last one, he only covers the truth a little, telling her that he got caught in the blast when St Canard Tower went up in smoke. He doesn’t mention anything more about that night, only saying it’s traumatic. He’s only half-lying about that.

“Well, Mr. Mallard,” she tells him, reaching across her desk to shake his hand, “I think things are going well. Your first visit can be this week, if you’re… well enough.”

She looks at his injuries with a bit of distaste, as if she thinks they detract from his ability to do this. Drake doesn’t let it dissuade him.

“Of course I am. I’m almost ready to have the casts come off and everything.”

“Ah, well, in that case, you’re free to come by the orphanage on, ah, let’s see….” She turns her attention to a calendar beside her desk, humming tunelessly as she sorts out a date and time.

He realizes he can see the exploded tower from the window behind her head, scaffolding rising toward the clouds. It’s been long enough they’re rebuilding already, and… and Gos has been alone since. His heart hurts at that thought.

“Gosalyn’s hockey game is on Sunday, so let’s schedule your visit for Saturday. Does eight am work?”

“That’s alright by me,” he nods. He’s gonna have to ask Launchpad to really help him out with this, because his appointment to get the casts off is that afternoon and he can’t miss either obligation.

The social worker reaches for a sticky note, scribbling black pen onto the pink paper. It’s a vivid reminder signifying bright things to come, and he takes it with a spark of hope in his chest.

“You said she’s got a hockey game this weekend? My, uh… _assistant_ and I wouldn’t be allowed to come, by any chance, would we?”

“Well, I don’t see why not. A proper parent _would_ be there to support her. I’ll be there myself, I could supervise a moment between you after the game.”

Drake’s heart begins to race. It suddenly feels quite real, the impending changes of parenthood suddenly stepping into his life. He’s left space for that, though, reserved time and energy for Gosalyn in everything she might need it. Anything to bring that spirit of hers to a safe place.

“That would be great.”

It’s only a few breathless minutes from the office to the car, but he can hardly wait that long, even. He spills everything to Launchpad as soon as he sits down. LP is thrilled at the news, immediately, but he reminds Drake that they’re supposed to be moving into the house this weekend.

“Will we have time for all of that? I mean, we can do a bit of it tonight, but….”

“There has to be a way, right?” Drake taps the center console with rapid fingertips. “But you’ll have to go back to your hangar and pack the stuff you didn’t bring to the tower, and I can’t drive myself until I get the casts off.”

“Heh, yeah, last time you tried that you crashed worse than me, and you didn’t even leave the tower.” Launchpad jokes lightly. Then, his brow furrows and he gets a bit more serious. “SHUSH already set up the connecting tunnel thing from the tower to the new house, right?”

“Well, yeah,” Drake replies. He already doesn’t like where this is headed.

“I can drop you off at the tower tonight and you can take that to the house. Give it a little test run! And you can get all settled in and start on building some of the furniture while I make my trip for my stuff. Then we can get the rest of it done by the time we go see her!”

Drake thinks back to the house, with its warm sunshine and big, sprawling rooms. He's used to the giant rooms of the tower, but those are meant to be cold and lonely, like his life before was. A house is meant to be full and cozy, he doesn’t want to have to—

“I can be back by midnight, easy,” Launchpad continues. “You can manage that long, right?”

“Y—yep, LP, sure can,” Drake forces his voice to level out. He can handle that long physically, which he assumes Launchpad is asking about, but emotionally… he’s just going to have to rely on his acting skills to get by this time. Their ride to the bridge tower is full of a silence that only allows Drake’s panic to fester, to roll into a boil like a pot of water on the stove.

By the time they part ways, his hands are shaking. He grins and bears the painful ache in his heart, watching as Launchpad waves goodbye and takes to the skies in the Thunderquack. As soon as he’s out of sight, though, Drake’s breath hitches and he breaks out into hyperventilation. He begins to lose his senses, the world around him swirling like a carousel that’s started to spin a bit too fast.

“What if he doesn’t come back?” He pants to himself, awkwardly beginning to pace. A voice in the back of his head chirps that he really shouldn’t do that, he needs to rest his injuries. He forces it away quickly, haunted by how much his inner self-care sounds like Launchpad now.

“If he leaves for good I won’t be able to do this,” he chokes on his own anxious words, coughing them out and drawing a raspy, shaky breath back in. “I’ve got a huge house and so much paperwork and I’m still too hurt to do patrol without help and—and—”

Drake wheezes, his vision tunneling. LP is his rock, he realizes. Without his big partner-pilot-pal helping him through, he’s just some dumb, fat old bird trying to adopt a kid without the means to do so. The name Drake Mallard used to not matter without Darkwing Duck attached to it, but now, he’s only somebody when he has Launchpad by his side.

He collapses into one of the armchairs. There’s two, of course, he just _had_ to buy a matching one for Launchpad, and he closes his eyes while it whisks him away to their new house. Launchpad bought a _house_ with him.

His busted ribs are healing, but they’re set ablaze under the distress of rapid breathing and a heart rate like he’s doing a foot chase to catch a criminal. He crosses his unbroken arm over his chest, a sort of loose hug on himself to try and still his racing pulse. His mind is racing, too, leaving his thoughts in total disarray.

He stumbles out of the chair when it stops, hurrying to a standing position. Everything is disorienting. His head has started to ache and everything feels a bit fuzzy around the edges. The house is still so unfamiliar and new, filled with boxes of belongings and furniture they’ve only built halfway if at all. Drake feels like he’s in some sort of Wonderland situation—sure, he wants this change in his life, but it’s so unusual and shocking at every turn.

And everything is so _much_. He’s used to the wide open tower, and the accompanying loneliness, but this is different. There’s so many rooms, most of which he’s hardly been in yet but he’s got to decorate and furnish, and this is a place meant to be lived-in. It just feels like—like a haunted house, abandoned halfway through settling in, where everything looks like something bad has happened and the people who left it won’t come back.

The thought of abandonment is the most overwhelming one. It makes his breath catch in his throat, especially when he takes a blurry glance around at the partially-built furniture and everything he sees has been touched by Launchpad.

He decides that this kind of fearful loneliness is the worst feeling anyone could feel.

He trips over a half-open box in his panic-blind state, and his already injured leg lights up like a fire. He grits his teeth, forcing away any sort of pained noise. He always gets… back up… why is this so... _hard_? He drags himself to the middle of the room, and lets his quivering knees give out as soon as there’s space.

“What have I done?” He wheezes, between rough breaths, and closes his eyes. “I’m going to lose everything.”

He clutches his own shoulders, pulling at the fabric of his shirt best he can with his damaged arm on one side, and twisting it up with his undamaged hand. It leaves the once-warm skin beneath exposed, and a rush of cool air hits his chest. It shocks him and he turns on his side, holding himself, trying to force his anxiety away unsuccessfully.

“I bought a _house_ , I’m adopting a _kid_ ,” he whimpers shakily. “I’m gonna do all this and they’re gonna say no. I’m not good enough. I never… never was.”

With his eyes shut tight, he feels like the whole universe is just him, just him and this flood of fear and pain. He can’t stop any of this. Everything feels like it’s falling apart and he doesn’t know what’s real.

He just knows that there’s too much all at once.

Time starts to rush too fast, and he lies on the floor gasping for air for what feels like an eternity. He’s not sure how long it is when he starts to come back to himself, just that the sun, which was beating down on the carpet in front of him, has now started to warm his feathers instead. He draws in a shaky breath, trying to think through the combined haze of overwhelmed feelings and a head injury.

“All this furniture needs to be put together and there’s so much paperwork and I have to get the casts off and I need to be there for Gosalyn, and I can’t, and I can’t—can’t do this. I made Launchpad think I’m a hero and made him feel bad for me and now he’s wasting his time on me, and—”

“You _are_ a hero, Drake.”

“No I’m not, I’ve convinced everybody I’m a good person and I’m lying and they’re gonna find out, and—” It’s only then that Drake’s panic clears enough for him to realize Launchpad’s voice is near, warm and soothing, drawing him back to earth. “Huh?”

“Look at me,” his partner prompts gently. “Listen.”

Because he can’t think to do anything else, he blinks open his eyes. Launchpad is sitting on the floor in front of him, blocking out the light with his broad shoulders. His orange hair is illuminated with the soft, warm light of sunset in a sort of angelic halo. It was midday just a minute ago….

“Breathe in for me, okay? As deep as you can. I’ll do it with you.”

Drake’s hands are shaking, and his head is pounding, but he mirrors the way Launchpad breaths in, chest expanding until it aches. Launchpad nods encouragingly, and then holds still, air suspended in his muscular chest. After a few heartbeats rush through Drake’s ears, they let it out together, a long, burdened sigh. Launchpad grins.

“See? You’re okay! Do it again, just for me? Don’t think about anything else right now.”

“Okay,” Drake replies, feeling quite a bit like a child caught doing something wrong. His cheeks burn with something walking a tightrope between embarrassment and even more anxiety. His throat is full of cotton, choked by a million frightened statements all trying to make a run for his beak at once.

He washes the words away with sighing breaths, copying Launchpad, until his racing heart remembers a proper rhythm to beat to.

Launchpad lies down with him, smiling gently, and their eyes meet a little too perfectly. Drake looks away as best he can as his feathers turn warm all over.

“I thought you said you’d be back around midnight. Figured you’d be gone for a lot longer.”

“I had a lot less to pack than I thought, heh,” he laughs lightly. “Guess I never really had too much to begin with. I thought you seemed kind of nervous earlier though, so I decided to come back as soon as I could.”

“I’m, uh… it was nice of you to do that,” he replies awkwardly. “I… uh… appreciate that.”

He still feels quite a bit like he might explode with everything on his mind. His hands are still sweaty and his chest is close to bursting with the pressure of his ever-pounding heart. Somehow, Launchpad seems to be able to sense that.

“Can you feel the carpet beneath us?”

Drake furrows his brow, looking to Launchpad for answers to unspoken, yet obvious questions, and his partner just grins warmly.

“Trust me, okay? Can you feel it?”

“Yes. Sure. Launchpad, I--”

“Soft, huh? A little warm from the sun?”

“Y--yeah, but what--”

“And you can feel the sunshine too, right? Cozy to sit in.”

“I guess so. What does--”

“Hey. It’s okay. Trust me. Do you trust me?”

 _More than anything,_ Drake’s heart says. But his head can only manage a simple, “Yeah.”

“Can you hear the wind outside? The leaves are rustling in the trees.”

He just lies there silently. His head is still twirling like a dancer when the music goes just a bit too fast, making everything hard to follow, and he’s still trying to keep his breathing even. Besides, he’s got the suspicion Launchpad won’t answer his questions anyway. But he _can_ hear it, so he nods at least.

“And the kids in the neighbors’ yard, can you hear them playing?”

Another nod.

“You can see me, here with you? You can feel the world around us, and you can tell it’s real? You can feel all that air in your chest, keeping you going? You’re going to be just fine, I promise. Just breathe.”

He does just that for a long moment. Launchpad lies with him through it, until the swirling feeling leaves his head. Until the warm sunshine starts to shift away from his spot. Until his heart slows down and his hands feel cool.

“Thank you,” he manages, once he’s reassembled his emotional state somewhat. “I… that helped a lot.”

Launchpad lights up like a Christmas tree, first a flicker and then the full sparkle of a smile.

“You’re welcome,” he replies. He pauses briefly, and Drake takes in that bright smile like it’s water in a desert. The unfamiliar fondness between them is a total wrecking ball, and he’s already too unstable. He’s a box of mismatched toy bricks, and Launchpad’s fitting his pieces together again.

“Do you want to talk through what’s worrying you?”

“I’m fine, I can handle it. I’m just going through a lot.”

“Drake,” Launchpad murmurs, a gentle strength in his usually soft voice that captures Drake’s entire attention with just that word. He smiles, and in doing so he shifts his head just enough so that his bouncy bangs fall past his eyes and land on the floor. Drake’s momentarily breathless as he realizes just how close they are.

His heartbeat starts picking up again, but this time not in a bad way.

“Talk to me.” Launchpad prompts. “I promise I won’t judge you or tell anyone else, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Well, I—” he sighs, unable(and maybe a bit unwilling) to fight this. “There’s just so _much_. I’m changing my whole world in just a few weeks, and doing all this paperwork, and buying a house, and I have to get all these new clothes and furniture and all, and I’m just not—what if they say no?”

“They won’t. We did all the work we needed to, and SHUSH promised to handle the rest.” LP reminds him. “The house is all taken care of, all the paperwork is off to the adoption agency. All we have to do now is wait.”

“On them to make a decision, sure. It’s hard to wait, though. I’m… it’s not easy.”

“I know. It’s not easy for anyone in this situation, but you’ll pull through. You said you’re worried about the shopping, right?”

“Well, yeah. There’s… there’s a lot to do. We got a lot of the furniture, but we still have to build it, and I still need to go out and get civilian clothes, and we need everything else. We don’t have any dishes in the kitchen, and we need to get things like sheets and blankets for our beds, and—”

“Hey.” He gets firm again, stopping Drake in his tracks, and looks him dead in the eyes. Drake is rendered speechless as he continues. “You’re working yourself up over nothing. I can make the shopping trips, if it makes you anxious. You need to rest, anyway, even after the casts come off. And for the rest of it? We can do it together. I mean, why wouldn’t we? I am your sidekick, right? I’ll be by your side whenever you need me. Just like I was today.”

“I think… I think we both know you’re more than that, LP. Anybody else wouldn’t have stayed.”

“Well… you’re worth staying for, I guess.”

Launchpad smiles again, and it’s warm like hot cocoa to sip during a blizzard. He reaches out a hand, and Drake presses his uninjured hand against it. Their palms touch, fingers quickly lacing together, and with his small hand against LP’s big one, Drake starts to feel something beautiful blossoming in his chest. As if he’s just been tossed a lifeline in a stormy sea, destined to be saved and cared for whenever he may need it.


	2. Maybe You Could Show Me How To Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gosalyn’s adoption progresses, and Drake confesses his feelings to Launchpad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two! This one is a bit more Gos & Drake focused, but there’s still plenty of drakepad too.
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from the song Blinding Lights by The Weeknd.
> 
> Again, don’t hesitate to leave me a comment and tell me what you think! I love hearing people’s thoughts or about what scenes they liked.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Mallard. Gosalyn isn’t feeling very well today.”

He glances out the window at the Tower, scaffolding making a hollowed shape of the spot he was standing in when it blew. He knows exactly how the poor kid feels, and it aches more to know that part of it too is feeling forgotten, since he hasn’t been able to see her for weeks.

“Aw, really? I’m sorry to hear that.” He leans his weight onto one leg. He’s so ready to get these stupid casts off. The orphanage lady says something about coming another time, and he bites his beak a little. He can’t bear the thought of making that spunky girl wait any longer. He doesn’t know how much longer he could wait himself, either. But what can he do?

“Frankly, it appears you’ve seen better days yourself,” the orphanage leader huffs. She must’ve not got the memo from the other—he needs to focus. He can’t just say he was blown up, right? It worked in the interview, but this lady seems a bit faint of heart.

A familiar redheaded face peeks around the corner, and he gets an idea to catch her attention.

“Oh, the bandages! Well, heh. That’s just a little kitchen accident.” He gestures loosely to the sling and cast on his arm. He raises his voice, and the kid silently lights up with surprise. “I have trouble making breakfast. I always forget the milk.”

A bandage falls into his eyes—he didn’t secure them well this morning in his rush to get ready--and all of a sudden there’s a giggling blur slamming into his chest. He tumbles to the floor, winded but far from upset. He huffs playfully he registers her now sitting in his lap. “Watch the ribs, kid!”

“I thought you were—” Gos’s voice is soft, a little broken. His heart feels a little heavy when he realizes what she means. He did kind of get blown up a little, and she’s only a kid. It probably looked like the end of the world through her little green eyes. He sets his broken arm against her shoulder comfortingly.

“Ha! Nobody can hurt Darkwing D-Du—Drake Mallard,” he declares pridefully.

Well, mostly with pride, anyway. His usual ego comes from the comfort of the mask, and it used to be so painful to use his forgotten civilian name. But this time… this time all he feels is warmth. His name is Drake Mallard, and he’s going to give his surname to this little girl, who’s giving him a look like he just handed her the stars.

“I have to take care of myself, you know. Now that I have an adopted daughter to worry about.”

He touches the side of her face very gently. He’s still a little afraid all of this will turn out to be some sort of twisted dream, but she’s real. She’s leaning into his touch as if tenderness is as new to her as it is to him, and as if she can’t believe this either. It feels the first time in years anything’s worked out for either of them. Maybe ever.

He’s kind of dazed by it, really. Here he is, with a daughter he’s almost-but-not-quite adopted sitting in his lap, and he’s got a whole _house_ to go home to tonight. He wants to take Gos to see her new room so badly. He gets to his feet, Gosalyn still right by his side. Mrs. Cavanaugh asks him something, and he shakes out of the mental fog enough to catch the end of it.

“—drive in that condition?”

“Oh, well, heh,” he sniffles, trying to fight that ever-growing sweet feeling he gets when he thinks about it. “I have help.”

And as if on some sort of cue, Launchpad backs their brand new car straight through the orphanage wall. Drake feels fuzzy, with Launchpad looking at him like he is, and Gos at his side giggling over the whole situation. This is just so much, all at once, and he feels the same kind of unusual strength he did when he woke up after the explosion determined to find Gosalyn and Launchpad again.

He’s gone and found them, alright, but now that he’s got it he doesn’t know what to do with that warm feeling he’s been chasing.

That same passion powers him through the hospital visit to get his casts off. He’s far from a fan of doctors, but getting them off will free him up enough to get back to patrol full-time and get the rest of the house together around that. Or, at least, to do as much of it as he can convince Launchpad to let him. Since his big panic attack, the pilot’s been very adamant about doing as much of the work as he can alone, to save Drake the worry and expended energy.

While Drake is grateful—as loathe as he is to admit it, he _does_ still need the help—he’s going crazy sitting still. He needs to go out, whack a few baddies around, and keep his hands busy building Gos’s bed or something. There’s plenty to do now that he’s free of those stupid bandages and what all. He just has to promise to take it easy while his wounds heal the rest of the way.

They’ve still got the game to go to this weekend, too. Drake’s considerably concerned about making that go well. He tries on half of his new wardrobe trying to find something that will make him look presentable.

“What do you think of this one, LP?” He’s in his third sweater, frowning at the mirror. His body is just the wrong shape, he thinks. Too round of a tummy, too big of a chest, but with shoulders too skinny and arms just a little too long and thin. He doesn’t know who he’s fooling. No amount of playing dress-up can hide that he’s just plain bad-looking.

“I think you’ll look fine in anything,” Launchpad replies. He’s screwing the pieces to a chair together, sitting on the floor. “I mean, I don’t think Gos is gonna care, and the social worker has seen you in most of your nice stuff. You’ve visited her a lot.”

“Well, yeah, but--”

“Come on, Drake. I promise you, if you looked bad I’d say something. But you don’t!”

“You really think so?” Drake puffs out his chest a little, and catches Launchpad’s eyes in the mirror reflection.

“Sure do! You look good.”

The pink sweater he’s in stays on as they head to the game, and Drake makes a mental note to buy another copy of it the next time they head to the store. If Launchpad likes the way he looks, he’s gonna have to wear it a lot.

They aren’t really allowed to talk to Gosalyn or wave too much. The social worker doesn’t want them distracting any of the kids on the ice, and besides, Drake doesn’t want Gos to mess up. He knows sports matter to the kid a lot, even just from playing with her that day in the tower. She’s a competitive and athletic little thing, and he wants to nurture that energy. Visiting her after her game is the first step in starting that.

Not to mention how good it looks to the adoption people that he’s here for her.

Launchpad buys an armful of snacks. He’s always hungry, but Drake’s biting his beak and feeling dizzy just sitting in the social worker’s view. His stomach is churning a bit too much to think about sharing Launchpad’s popcorn or candies. Plus, as soon as he spots their little redhead taking to the ice, he’s more focused on her than anything.

Her natural talent is apparent, even from this distance. Her pigtails woosh around from where they poke out from her helmet, caught in the wind of her graceful movements. She dodges and swoops around the others as if she were born to the ice, determined to make bold moves and win whatever the cost.

She scores a solid three goals before the game hits halfway, and Drake feels a gentle but fierce pride in her. His heart feels almost like it might burst. A dramatic little voice in his head wants to stand up and yell gleefully that _that’s his little girl, look at her go!_

He watches the kids file off the ice for a break mid-game. Several of them have parents waiting in the wings, handing them juice boxes or fruit slices. He loses track of Gosalyn in the crowd, and he wonders if she’s alone down there. It makes his heart hurt, knowing he can’t be with her yet.

But then he starts to worry again. Could he even support her right if he had the chance? He’s been trying to read parenting books whenever he has time, and he’s gone through every booklet and brochure the adoption agency has sent his way. But his stockpile of knowledge is limited to the logical kind, to situations far different than this. Biological kids, kids who are younger than Gos, kids who would just plain react to things differently than her spirited personality would. Self-doubt creeps in, watching the other parents care for their children.

“Launchpad, am I doing this right?” He shakes his head, trying and failing to clear it. “I mean, is this really what’s best for her? I can’t really promise her anything normal, not with… you know. And if I mess up I could hurt her forever.”

“Whataya ‘ean?” Launchpad mumbles over a mouthful of popcorn kernels. He swallows before continuing. “You’re kidding, right? You dropped everything for her! As soon as anyone suggests you’re doing anything wrong you jump in and change it.”

“Sure, but if I make a mistake after she’s home with us, it might—”

“Drake, nobody _wants_ to make mistakes.”

He glances over to his partner. He’s so casually munching on food, people-watching until they get back to the game. It’s like he’s not even worried at all about this whole thing, but he’s so casually confident anyway.

“I… yeah.” Drake breathes deeply, calming himself, remembering that evening lying together on the floor. “Okay.”

As he collects his anxious thoughts, he finds himself looking over at Launchpad for a moment longer. The pilot’s wearing his usual jacket, and even from this distance, he smells of motor oil and smoke. It snatches up Drake’s focus entirely.

He stares for a moment at those big, muscular arms stretched out behind LP’s head, with his chest tilted outward. His legs are crossed comfortably to hold his snack bucket in his lap. It takes Drake’s breath away and he has to turn away, suddenly choked up. He’s always so warm around Launchpad, and as he focuses for a minute on the pilot his racing heart shifts from going fast in nervousness to something… gentler. And the dumbest part is Launchpad is _right_ , as always! He believes in Drake and he’s always _right_ when he says Drake can do it.

He thinks about his breakdown again. About how willing Launchpad was to take over the overwhelming tasks when Drake threw his whole self in and almost drowned in it all. He thinks about the way Launchpad would wait in the car for him, through so many appointments and interviews. He remembers that night in the tower, the way he was so gentle with taking Drake’s mask off, and being the only one, after so many years alone, to shatter the wall between Darkwing and Drake just by being _there_.

He thinks about how, every time, he felt the same weird, gentle, fierce feeling, as if he could catch fire any minute, but he’d be willing to burn forever if it meant to be this close to LP for one more day.

Drake thinks of the two of them, of their journey together so far, and he realizes that every worry he’s had has had a solution to be found with Launchpad. The pilot has faith in him, despite how many times he’s messed up, and it’s led to him becoming a better person for it.

Drake shakes his head as if it’s an Etch-a-Sketch, and he wants to clean it off to write new thoughts. Whatever worries he had before about adopting Gos are gone. He can’t doubt himself in this with Launchpad having such unmoving belief in his abilities.

He also can’t deny it any longer. These feelings, however much he wants to pretend they’re nothing, are _love_ , and if he continues to deny himself what his heart longs for he’s going to cause irreparable damage to both of them. He has to find a way to say something, anything, or he’s going to spend the rest of his life feeling like he’s holding his breath. His heart can’t handle anything less than to bleed this thing into words, and soon.

By the time Gos and her teammates return to the ice, he decides he’ll tell LP how he feels after the game. His soon-to-be-daughter’s team is one goal behind the other, and he focuses on watching her determinedly whack at the puck. He can see it in her even as she takes her first swing after the break: she is going to win this game, and nobody can stop her.

He keeps his eyes trained on her as she plays, her gaze focused solely on the puck. They’re both so wrapped up in her path across the ice that neither Drake nor Gosalyn sees the opposing teammate on a collision course with her. Not until they collide and she’s launched right onto her tail, left to slide across the ice. He can hear her yelp—in surprise or pain, he has no way of knowing—from even where he's sitting quite a few rows up in the bleachers.

He gasps, rising to his feet on instinct. He doesn’t know if he’s really _allowed_ to go see her yet, but when he sees Gos’s social worker hurrying down the concrete steps, Drake takes off. He skips steps to accommodate how much shorter his legs are, and makes it to the bottom right behind her. Launchpad, spilling snack wrappers and popcorn in his wake, bumbles after.

Drake’s head starts to cloud up, overwhelmed with the sensory input of the public setting and his worries, piling up like snowflakes in a blizzard. What if she’s got a concussion? If she needs the hospital, or worse? Combining that with the smells of sports-event snacks, noise from every angle, the cold air rushing off the rink, and the blinding white lights overhead, Drake is truly and thoroughly pushed to his limit.

He’s not sure how he manages the trek through the crowded bleachers. He hates noise and light, especially when there’s too much piled up together. He’s just so used to quiet nights and the even quieter tower. Not to mention he’s still recovering from a concussion.

He supposes he just really needs to know his little girl is okay.

When they reach the side of the rink Gos has thrown her helmet aside, her hair a frizzy mess without it. Someone in a uniform is trying to tend to her, but she’s brushing them off. He can see a spattering of red on her beak, betraying an injury.

Her social worker starts asking the adults around what happened and if everything’s okay, but Drake makes a beeline for Gos herself.

“Hey, kiddo. You okay?”

“Dar—Drake! Hi! You got the casts off!”

She grins widely when she sees him, and he realizes the blood is from a missing tooth. The gap left behind makes her look younger than before, and he feels a pang of hurt in his heart for not being able to protect her. She doesn’t seem to mind, though, instead gesturing to his arm and legs.

“Oh, yeah. I told you I’d be fine.” He smiles to reassure her. “But are _you_ okay?”

“Yeah, it looked like you took a pretty nasty hit there,” Launchpad laughs a little, trying to lighten the mood. “Didn't seem to slow you down though.”

“Nah, I get hit all the time, and I always get right back up!”

“That sounds familiar. Hm, who do I know that does that?”

“Very funny, Launchpad,” Drake interjects, frowning at him before kneeling down beside Gos. “Seriously, though, how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. I wanna keep playing but they said they wanna check for a concussion first. I don’t think they can find the medic guy though.”

“I’m sure they will soon,” he reassures her, and then ruffles her hair. “You know, you’re pretty good at this game.”

“You think so?” There’s so much hope in her voice, enough to break Drake’s heart. He makes a mental note to remind her he’s proud of her as often as he can. But before Drake has time to string together praise—something he really isn't used to doing—LP steps up.

“‘Course we do, Gosaroonie! You were doing so good out there! I’m sure you’ll get back to it soon.”

“Thanks, Launchpad!” She beams at the new nickname and the nice words.

“I don’t think I could skate like that! I think all I would end up doing is crashing.”

“You do that a lot, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” he says, and there’s a brief pause before they both burst out laughing.

They’ve hardly met, and yet they get along so well. Launchpad is so good with her, even though he doesn’t really have a stake in her adoption. Drake can’t make sense of why it makes him feel as sweet as it does to see LP taking care of her, fawning over her while she babbles about everything she can think of to say, from the game she’s been pulled from to her favorite team winning the championship.

Drake doesn’t understand sports or why she loves them so much, but he’s willing to foster that curiosity. He decides to do a little research on it when he gets a few minutes to, if nothing more than to be able to talk with her about it. After all, if he’d had someone to nurture his interests as a kid, maybe he would’ve grown up to not be the kind of person who patrols the city at night beating up criminals.

Eventually, they bring a medic over, and he starts to look over Gos. She starts to squirm a bit, obviously uncomfortable with this sort of attention, and Launchpad takes her hand. He talks to her softly, and as Drake watches them, that pleasant warmth blossoms in his chest again.

He loves Gosalyn, and her enthusiastic spirit, and he loves Launchpad, and his supportive presence.

They decide Gosalyn’s fine, but will need to get to the dentist as soon as they can, so Drake and Launchpad’s surprise visit comes to an abrupt end. Gos pouts a bit at having to say goodbye, but Drake offers her a hug and it seems to help. It's easier to do so now that the casts are off, but since they’re both a bit hurt still, it’s a gentle embrace. Despite that, there’s a loving fierceness to it that Drake holds dear even when they let go, and he knows that the memory of it will keep him going. This is what he’s fighting for.

It’s raining outside as they go to leave, and the game is just coming to an end. There’s a great crowd in the parking lot as everyone rushes to their vehicles, trying to escape the downpour. LP and Drake are no exception, hurrying to duck into Drake’s little blue car and turn on the heat. With so many people and cars departing all around them, it’s clear there will be too much traffic to leave for a while.

Drake supposes this is as good a time as any to figure out what to say to Launchpad. He knows they’re already in this together, partners in crime-fighting and in everything else. Launchpad’s proven to him already that he’s not going to leave. And yet… Drake’s got a loud voice in the back of his head screaming at him.

_Don’t do it! He doesn’t feel the same! Stay quiet about this or you’ll lose him!_

It’s not made easier by the fact that Drake has no experience with talking to people. He's still very fresh from his years of self-imposed solitude, and even before that, he was never good at socializing. He just hasn't had practice with this to know what to say, or do, or really anything. He can only try to keep his shaking hands still, and be honest, and hope that it comes out right.

The rain drums down outside, and he looks over at Launchpad, who’s watching raindrops race each other down the windshield. His heart feels like it might burst in his chest, an overinflated balloon of emotions that he can no longer handle alone.

“H—hey, LP, I have something to tell you.”

“Yeah?”

Launchpad looks over, leaning back in his seat. He puts his arms up, hands behind his head. Drake’s breath hitches in his chest for a moment and he knows, down to his core, that he’s found his other half, if only he can figure out to _say_ so.

“I just wanted to say—er, I feel—well, I… I realized, while we’ve been working together, and all, that—” He grits his teeth and shakes his head. “Ugh, why is it so hard to talk to you?”

He winces. He didn't mean to vocalize that last part.

“Drake,” Launchpad says with a light chuckle. “It’s okay!”

“Huh?”

“If you’re not ready. It’s okay. We can go slowly.” His gaze is full of a softness no one has ever held for Drake before. “Just like teaching someone to fly. It might take a little while to be ready, if you’re scared of crashing. But I don’t think you can love being in the air if you can’t love the mess of a crash too.”

“Can you teach me, then?”

“To fly?”

“To crash.”

Drake offers him a shaky smile. LP grins back, warm as a summer sun, just like always. Forever Drake’s opposite and other half. Drake reaches out his hand, and they lace their fingers together, palms pressed against each other. Goosebumps cover his skin, but he’s not cold anymore. He could never be, with Launchpad here.

With the windows fogged up, and the rain drumming down, it feels like he and LP are the only two people on earth, and for just this one moment, he’s content to have nothing more than this warm, gentle touch.

It takes them another month to really sort themselves out. Drake is still trying to unravel years of improper socialization, and Launchpad’s definitely a bit too much sometimes. But as time passes they set themselves boundaries. LP learns to pick up on Drake’s subtle signs of need, whether that means he needs to be left alone for a while, or he needs attention. In equal measure, Drake learns to listen for when LP needs a little more love, or needs to take some time to himself.

It’s a constant process, and Drake figures it will take a lot more than these few weeks to really settle into their newborn relationship. But it will have to wait, because then something bigger takes center stage in their lives: Gosalyn’s homecoming.

The final hearing is easy, mostly just a formality where a judge declares Drake to be a fit parent and they officially sign Gosalyn to his custody. He gets to load what little she has into the car, and give her a huge hug, and then it’s finally over. He’s fought for his little girl for so long and they’ve _won_ at last.

He doesn’t quite know how to feel when she climbs into the backseat, and he looks at her in the rearview. She’s peering out the window with those big green eyes, and her little legs are sticking off the seat, not long enough to reach the floor. She’s sticking her tongue out at the social worker and orphanage owner as they walk down the courthouse steps together—too far away to see Gos, even if she weren’t behind a tinted window—and he can’t help but smile. That’s his spirited daughter, alright.

“Love you, Gosalyn,” he comments, turning in his seat to watch as he starts backing up.

“I love you too, Dad!” She chirps, turning to him with a smile bright as the sun. His breath catches in his throat as he’s flooded with affection, and he squishes it down best he can. He wants to seem calm and collected, at least today. He knows they’ll both remember this as the best day ever for a long, long time.

“Put your seatbelt on,” he says, tapping her beak lightly, deflecting from his own reaction. “And we’ll go.”

“Mrs. Cavanaugh never made us put seatbelts on,” she pouts, but clicks the seatbelt on anyway. “I don’t think she cared.”

“Well, Gos, guess what? I care about you.” He backs up the car, starting onto the road toward home.

“I know,” she says, and her voice gets small, as if even as she’s saying it it’s still sinking in. “I know.”

She’s not quiet for long. She spends most of their first drive home together talking up a storm, pent-up energy from her exciting day bleeding into her words and her hands, as she gestures dramatically with them. Drake thinks about Launchpad’s little remark at the hockey game as he turns onto their street—she really is just like him.

The house is full of golden light when they pull into the driveway. LP’s clearly back from working on the Thunderquack while Drake was out, and he hopes everything they’d planned is ready. In his excitement that morning he’s sure he forgot something or another.

The banner LP hand-painted is hanging over the front porch, waving in the light evening breeze and declaring, “Welcome home Gosalyn!” As soon as they stop, she sees it, and squeals in delight. She’s out of the car before Drake has time to cut the motor, abandoning her things. He collects them before heading for the door himself, where she’s practically bouncing up and down.

“Door’s locked, huh?”

“Yeah. I wanna go inside! Hurry up!”

“Okay, kiddo, okay,” he laughs lightly, setting her bags on the porch. He unlocks the door, and pushes it open for her, and she kicks off her sneakers roughly before sprinting inside. He follows her carefully, taking a deep breath. The smell of a warm, home-cooked meal reaches him in return.

LP steps out of the kitchen, and his face lights up when he sees Gos. She runs to him with a soft, childish laugh. “Launchpad!”

“Heya, Gosaroonie!” He scoops her up, tossing her in the air for a brief second. “Here at last, huh?”

Drake’s heart skips a beat, but then she falls into Launchpad’s arms and the sight fills him with an overwhelmingly pleasant feeling. He strides across the room, ducking under LP’s arm to hug both of them at once. He’s here, and nothing else matters beyond the love his heart is full of, with these two redheads in his life.

He’s going to be okay.


End file.
